


Everybody's a Dreamer

by powerfulowl (StuckyFlangst)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Actor Steve Rogers, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Anal Sex, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Blow Jobs, Bottom Steve Rogers, Divorced Steve Rogers, Existential Angst, Existential Crisis, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Past Drug Use, Past Sharon Carter/Steve Rogers, Past homophobic attack, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Sad and Happy, Sex Worker Bucky Barnes, Top Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:00:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24450205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StuckyFlangst/pseuds/powerfulowl
Summary: Steve moaned deep in his throat, and James pressed his hand over Steve’s clavicle, as if to feel the vibration.Steve didn’t want to break the kiss. With his eyes closed and his head full of the smell of James, the constant screaming of his thoughts had quietened. He fumbled to undo James’ buttons, flicking his tongue against James’ lips, mouthing down along the line of his jaw to press his lips against the pulse at James’ neck. James hummed softly, that sweet sound that seemed to telegraph contentment, throatier this time. And oh that sound – contentment. Steve inhaled in, tasted it, longed for it to fill him.-----Steve Rogers is a Hollywood action star - people want to be him, or they want to be with him. So why is he waiting for a visit from James, employee of Hollywood's most exclusive companionship service? What is it that he needs that he can't find? And can he find at least one night of comfort out of sight of the world?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 35
Kudos: 192





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I posted this then deleted it within 5 seconds. Whoops! This was going to be a one shot, but I have made it two chapters now. The second one is largely written so I should update soon. This chapter is largely conversation, existential musing and sex.

_Everybody's a dreamer and everybody's a star  
And everybody's in movies, it doesn't matter who you are  
There are stars in every city  
In every house and on every street  
And if you walk down Hollywood Boulevard  
Their names are written in concrete_

_\---The Kinks, Celluloid Heroes_

Steve was nervous. He restlessly paced from room to room of his huge, cavernous Hollywood mansion. Why he had thought it was a good idea to buy this beast he no longer recalled. Something about real estate, Hollywood, making it. Nothing about why you would need ten guest rooms when you never had more than two guests.

He felt that sickness in his stomach that was always there these days. Like everything was surface – his house, his image repeated again and again on screens everywhere, his own face and body no longer familiar when he saw himself in the mirror.

Sharon had liked to have framed posters around from their films, but she had taken all of hers with her when she left, and Steve had taken his down and auctioned them off for charity.

So this is where he found himself – so starved of true companionship that he was paying someone to come and – what? Talk to him, hold him, fuck him?

_What services do you require Mr Rogers?_

Just an interaction with a person where it was one hundred per cent clear what was being given and taken; no ulterior motives or hidden agendas, sometimes so well hidden that neither of them really knew what they wanted from the other anymore. Like with Sharon – did either of them really know whether or not they had ever loved one another?

The doorbell rang and Steve started, the sick feeling rising as bile into his throat. He swallowed and squared his shoulders. When Sharon had lived here they had _staff_ to do things like answer the door. But Steve just couldn’t handle having people here all the time, and so ended up paying everyone the same amount of money to work a quarter of the time – to clean and look after the garden sometimes yes, but not to have to hover picking up after him all the time, not to be there filling the echoing rooms of the house. No one seemed to mind.

_Any preferences as to age, gender, or appearance (eg hair colour or length, build, height, weight)?_

He didn’t know what to expect. He had said he’d prefer someone within five years of his own age in either direction. He hadn’t specified a gender, wanting to leave that to chance, but he knew it was a man who was coming. _I don’t know about appearance,_ he’d said, _But not someone too… Hollywood._

Steve took a deep breath and opened the door. There, looking relaxed and waiting patiently, was a gorgeous man – dark hair pulled back in a short ponytail, wearing tight black jeans and a soft looking shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a small overnight bag in his hand.

He smiled as the door opened, blue-grey eyes crinkling delightfully. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, around Steve’s age, the lines around his eyes, on his forehead giving his fine-boned face character. And those cheek bones were to die for.

But not too Hollywood – not perfectly manicured, his skin looked lived in. He was well built but not ( _like Steve_ ) sculpted to within an inch of his life.

‘Hi, I’m James.’ He held out his right hand to Steve, who took it a little breathlessly and gave it a squeeze. James’ palm was soft, but there was a suggested of old callouses, of work that hands don’t forgive or forget even after years – too many dunkings in hot dishwater or harsh cleaning chemicals – not the romance of heavy labour but backbreaking, undramatic hours in a kitchen, scrubbing floors.

‘Steve.’ He was impressed he managed to say even that, having departed on some flight of fancy about the hands of this guy he didn’t know, would never really know because that’s not how this worked.

Steve’s eyes wandered over James, pausing for a moment on his exposed left forearm – skin marked with the patterns of old burns.

James smiled pleasantly. ‘I know you said that you didn’t mind scars on your form, but it’s totally fine if they bother you. Nick always has a backup if anything isn’t quite right.’

Steve’s eyes lingered for a moment longer – it must have been a bad injury, third degree burns. But Steve meant it when he said scars didn’t bother him. He had a few of his own that were usually carefully covered with foundation for shirtless scenes and photo shoots.

‘I’m genuinely not bothered,’ he gestured to the hallway (atrium?), ‘please come in.’

James followed him through the entrance hall, which was almost the size of Steve’s mother’s apartment, and through some labyrinthine twistings of staircases.

‘Man, I’ll need a guide or a compass to navigate out of here,’ James snorted. Steve barked out a laugh and looked James full in the face. His eyes were screwed up again, but this time he was wrinkling his nose as well.

Steve felt something loosen a little in his chest. There was no _look at that marble detailing_ or _I love the colour scheme_ or _who did you interior design_?

They reached Steve’s favourite room. Sharon had like to laugh and call it his _mancave_ but it was just a library. It had a fireplace and a couple of armchairs, and an antique desk near a large bay window which Steve could sit at when he was pretending he was a screenwriter. More often he sat on the window ledge and just stared out, a book in his hand.

_I’d really like to make more time for writing_ he sometimes said in interviews. He knew he just sounded like a fucking gymbro trying to be intellectual. _You should quite trying with that I’m a serious artist schtick, Steve. Just accept you’re a certified hottie the girls wanna fuck and the boys want to be. Why do you need anything more?_ Had Sharon said that or was it just his own brain?

‘Please, take a seat,’ Steve gestured to the armchairs, set in front of the fire he had lit earlier in the evening. ‘Whichever one you like.’

James regarded the two plush, velvety armchairs critically and settled into the red one on the left, wriggling a little and smiling as he settled in.

‘Would you like a drink?’ Steve gestured at his vintage cocktail cart. ‘I’ve got various boozes, or non-alcoholic options as well, and I make most standard cocktails.’ Steve wasn’t sure what the etiquette was here, but there had been nothing in his information pack instructing for or against alcohol.

‘Oooh, nice,’ James replied. ‘I’ll have an old fashioned if that’s okay.’

Steve breathed a sigh of relief – it was the perfect drink to keep him occupied for a longish period but without having complex ingredients. He gathered the tools for two and set about peeling off the orange rind.

‘So um,’ he stared intensely into the glass as he muddled the sugar and rind. ‘How does this work?’

James hummed softly, stretching his toes towards the fire. ‘However you want it to Steve.’ The name rolled out of James’ mouth warmly, sending a shiver through Steve’s body. ‘We can talk for a while, have a drink. But we also don’t have to. You have my list of things that are off limits. If you suggest something I don’t want to do, I’ll politely decline. But it’s your night. Talking is good, sex is good but not compulsory.’

Steve started muddling the second drink. _How do you want it to go?_ He didn’t know, that was the problem, didn’t know exactly what this was all about.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ James said, ‘I’ve got more experience with this than you.’ He quirked an eyebrow up at Steve who blushed a little. ‘Sometimes it helps for people to tell me a little about themselves, and I can tell you a little about me.’

Steve carefully measured out bourbon into the two glasses, pouring it over the ice and gently stirring.

‘You already know all about me, though, I bet,’ Steve tried to keep his tone neutral, not bitter.

James took the drink Steve offered and placed it on the side table beside him as Steve sat down in the equally comfortable blue chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. From here he could look at James from the corner of his eye – watch him tucking an errant strand of hair behind his ear, the firelight making the planes of his face flicker from sharp to gentle, eyes from shadow to light.

Sharon had truly hated the chairs. Steve had found them in an antique store and fallen in love, and didn’t mind at all when they were relegated to the library alongside all the other random bits and pieces he picked up and then fought with Sharon about.

‘But I don’t,’ James said. ‘I mean I’ve seen a lot of your films, because I like films, but definitionally they are not about you because they’re all fictional. I guess I’ve seen a few of those features in GQ or whatever, but I kind of hate reading celebrity interviews, so probably I mostly looked at the pictures.’

‘Why do you hate celebrity interviews?’ Steve asked. One of his own classic interview techniques was to ask the interviewer questions to avoid having to answer any.

James twinkled at him a little, like he was onto that trick, but he sipped his drink, made a please face, and answered anyway. ‘There are only two ways things can go – one, you read the interview and discover that the person you have been stanning has some objectionable and/or vapid views on something or everything.’

Steve laughed a little, pretty sure James would have thought Steve was vapid – his overly earnest replies, his good guy but manly persona, as Pierce liked to call it.

‘Or two, you suspect they might in fact have something interesting to say, but instead they’re forced through this dance of manufactured lines which for some reason neither they nor the interviewer are able to escape.’ James sipped his drink again. ‘Regardless, if they’re print interviews they’re always packaged in some excruciating narrative about how the journalist is sitting waiting and then the actor or generic famous person approaches, some description of their clothing, and then the actor either does something warm and down-home, or freaky and out of touch, and it goes from there.’

Steve sniggered in in a pained way. Sam told him never to read the articles, but he couldn’t help it – it was like watching footage of a train wreck you were involved in, unable to change the actions of your former self.

James laughed, and Steve realised he’d said that out loud, and blushed a little.

‘That’s good, I like it.’ James said. ‘Is that Sam Wilson?’

‘Yeah,’ Steve said. ‘He um, recommended Nick’s company to me.’ James nodded, swirling his ice around in his glass. He was very good at it, Steve realised, directing the conversation, paying attention but not too intensely, letting Steve go as far as he was comfortable.

‘I’ve been a bit down since my divorce last year,’ Steve started, staring at the fire. ‘Or probably even before that. Like, possibly the entire time I was married as well.’ Steve knew he sounded like an ungrateful jerk, but obviously James wasn’t here to judge him. James was here for the money, which was strangely freeing.

‘I know I have all of this,’ Steve gestured around at the house, at his body. ‘Like this is the dream, right? To be golden and rich and beautiful and famous and loved. This is the fairytale of the 21st century and I live it.’ His mouth tasted like bourbon and orange and something rotten. ‘But I’m so ungrateful. I wake up every day and I look at it all and I think that all of this is nothing, will pass. I look at my pictures in Men’s Health, all bulging biceps, the magical tale of Steve Rogers who was so skinny and sick but then he worked out, got strong, got beautiful, you can too.’

Steve threw back the rest of the drink, feeling the burn going down and closing his eyes briefly. He doesn’t keep going; not really sure what the punchline is. ‘Anyway, Sam thought Nick’s service might help. Even though the whole _whatever you desire_ thing sounded a bit LA Confidential to me.’

James smiled. ‘Nick does really like that book. He told me he almost called the service Fleur-de-lis but the film came out around that time and it seemed cheap.’

‘So that’s a bit about me,’ Steve said. ‘What about you?’

‘I feel like if I did read one of your interviews I would end up learning a lot about the person who wrote it, and not a lot about you,’ James grinned. But he settled back. ‘Um, I’ve been working for Nick for more than 10 years, I guess 12 now. He found me at a truck stop near Bumfuck Nowhere in Texas washing dishes and giving blow jobs to truckers, and occasionally getting beat up by gangs of Christian youths. I was way too old for it by then, in my mid-twenties, popping Hillbilly Heroin and just waiting to die.’

Steve stared at him, but James seemed pretty sanguine about his life story.

‘The arm had happened not long before.’ Bucky waved his left arm. ‘Some dickheads poured petrol on it and set it on fire, and the only reason I still have it is a nice, hairy biker put it out quick smart and beat up the five kids who did it. But I didn’t have insurance so I didn’t get super great treatment for it.

‘Anyway, Nick, who was on some sort of crazy road trip around the US trying to find people who as he put it, _didn’t taste like Los Angeles_ , saw me coming back to the kitchen from the parking lot wiping my mouth off and offered me insurance, treatment for the arm, money, a place to live and much nicer dicks.’

James laughed, and Steve was struck by how much more honest he had been than Steve, how simply and straightforwardly he laid himself bare.

_What characteristics would you like in your companion? Write whatever comes to mind, don’t be shy._

James must have caught something in Steve’s look. ‘So there are many answers in the questionnaire that could have led you to me, Steve Rogers.’ Steve shuddered a little at his name dripping off James’ lips again, and at James intuiting his line of thought. ‘But one of them is you probably said something about wanting something honest and open and no bullshit. Usually if people put that, and also say they don’t mind scars, they end up with me.’

Steve liked that James made him seem so unexceptional – just another person who had answered Nick’s questionnaire in a particular way. Just another star complaining about how hard it was being famous and how no one understood them. Wanting someone who _doesn’t taste like Hollywood._ But James wasn’t judging him for that or trying to make him happy or grateful.

‘I mean,’ Steve found himself saying. ‘A big part of how Sam convinced me was around the time of the Men’s Health article. Just before that, after the divorce happened, I talked to my agent about coming out as bi. Not in a big way, but just a statement or something. But Pierce was totally against it. Said he didn’t care what I did in private, but that a big part of my fan base was guys who wanted to _be_ me – and by me they meant a muscular hunk who got all the ladies. It was okay to be a nice guy, but it was not okay to be queer in pretty much any sense of the word.’ Steve sighed, remembering how Pierce just hadn’t thought the fangirl market was big enough to support a bisexual action star.

‘So anyway, Sam thought it might help to have a safe space where I could be…. You know…. Me? I guess?’

‘But that’s not just about who you want to sleep with, yeah?’ James asked.

‘No,’ Steve shook his head. ‘It’s about me imagining the long course of human history, and imagining in one or two or three hundred years how different now will look. If I was frozen and woke up, why would anyone care who I was? What will matter then? Will it be better or worse than all of this? I guess the marble staircases will outlast me.’

‘I used to think about that at the truck stop,’ James said softly. ‘Except from a different view point. I’d think about how little I mattered, how no one knew me, no one would notice if I was gone. I could feel the world, the universe turning and I wasn’t anything.’

Steve nodded, closing his eyes, feeling the heat of the fire on his skin. Had he ticked some sort of existential yearning box on the form as well? _I’d like someone who I could talk to about my thoughts, about the things I’m afraid of._

‘What do you think now?’ Steve asked huskily.

‘Pretty much the same,’ James shrugged, ‘Except I’ve decided that rather than thinking about how I’m too small to matter, I think about how we humans are all roughly the same size on that cosmic scale, and while we’re here we can try to do some good things, try to wonder at the universe and its marvels.’

‘Fuck,’ Steve said. ‘I wish I could make it there.’

James laughed again, deep and rich, and when Steve opened his eyes James has finished his drink, and was leaning toward Steve a little, hands resting on his thighs, top couple of buttons undone. He was beautiful and warm and human. About the same size as Steve. _What do you want to do?_

Steve reached over and put one of his hands on top of James’.

‘Shall we take this elsewhere.’ And suddenly that crinkle of James’ eyes was going to Steve’s crotch; his body was waking up from its slumber and his nerves were crying out to touch that beautiful, golden skin. Steve stood, still holding James’ hand. James stood as well and Steve leaned forward slowly and pressed a kiss to his lips.

This was something. This was a moment. James’ lips were soft and warm, and Steve’s body was heated by bourbon and fire and desire.

He stepped back and led James by the hand to his bedroom.

His room was off the library, and wasn’t the master he and Sharon had shared the occasional months they were both in LA. It was an extension of the library, with the same eclectic antique furnishings, some paintings of Steve’s from when he was young and skinny and undesirable and trying to make it as an artist. What a crazy dream that seemed now. It was something Steve resolutely refused to capitalise on – use his fame to have an exhibition of tired, half-assed paintings. He could play act at screenwriting, maybe directing, but not at painting.

James smiled at him reassuringly, maybe catching Steve going back into the dark caverns of his head.

Steve pulled James close again, kissing him more deeply again, trying to lose himself in the warmth, in the texture of James’ tongue running across his own, inhaling the scent of woodsmoke and skin, unscented and clean. Steve had ticked perfume in the allergy section, and he was so glad now because he could smell _James_ , smell another person, not just a masking scent. And also wasn’t breaking out in a rash either, which happened quite a lot when he hooked up with people.

Steve moaned deep in his throat, and James pressed his hand over Steve’s clavicle, as if to feel the vibration.

Steve didn’t want to break the kiss. With his eyes closed and his head full of the smell of James, the constant screaming of his thoughts had quietened. He fumbled to undo James’ buttons, flicking his tongue against James’ lips, mouthing down along the line of his jaw to press his lips against the pulse at James’ neck. James hummed softly, that sweet sound that seemed to telegraph contentment, throatier this time. And oh that sound – _contentment_. Steve inhaled in, tasted it, longed for it to fill him.

Steve ran his hands over James’ ribs, almost overwhelmed by the feel of the firm curve of his pectoral muscles, still giving a little under Steve’s fingers; the lean lines of his muscles; the breadth of his shoulders as Steve slipped his shirt off.

Steve finally broke away, just to have a look. He had to see it. James’ hair dishevelled and falling across his face, his lips pinkened and ripe, his body beautiful and strong but still soft. Like he probably worked out a few times a week, went running alone or with friends, went swimming in summer, sometimes helped out moving furniture for his neighbours, maybe went hiking on weekends. Just an ordinary body still, for living in – not like Steve’s own over-engineered muscles built from gruelling workout regimes to the end only of being looked at, being filmed, photographed. Not to do anything with.

James reached out a hand and ran it through Steve’s hair, traced the line of his jaw and pressed a teasing finger to his nose. It was the first move James had made, letting Steve take the lead up to now. He really was a consummate professional. And for some reason that eased Steve’s tension rather than increased it. It was okay, this was what James was here for. He could take control.

James ran his hands down Steve’s chest and lightly fingered the bottom of his t-shirt, asking a question.

Steve raised his arms over his head mutely, letting James pull the t-shirt off. James kept his eyes fixed on Steve’s, stepping forward and pressing their body’s together, the hard planes of Steve’s stomach, with his ridiculous six pack, against the smooth lines of James’ belly, with its adorable squishy curve which spoke to Steve of ordinary, hearty meals and beers with friends.

And they were kissing again, more urgently this time, Steve panting against James’ mouth, pushing his swelling cock, straining in his jeans, against James’ thigh.

‘Shall we get our pants off too?’ James suggested with a little smirk, whispering into Steve’s skin.

Steve groaned in response, fumbling with James’ fly, as James dealt expertly with Steve’s. There was some fumbling and stumbling as they divested one another of pants and shoes and socks, but James made it so delightful, with his melodious chuckle, nipping at random parts of Steve’s exposed flesh.

And Steve was giggling, swatting at James’ wandering hands as they dug into Steve’s sides.

‘You a bit ticklish, Stevie,’ James teased, then squealed as Steve pushed him back onto the bed. The wrestled playfully for a moment, then as their bodies rubbed against one another, cocks straining against their boxer briefs, the giggling turned to moaning again. Steve thrilled to hear the throaty groans catching in James’ throat, feel the evidence of his desire pressing against Steve’s stomach through thin cotton.

Sam had assured him that everyone who worked for Fury’s company were well-paid, well looked after, and fully consenting. ‘Sure it’s a job,’ Sam had shrugged, ‘but they’re all professionals and they take pride in doing that job well.’

Now James was tugging at Steve’s briefs. Somehow Steve found himself on his back, watching James strip him off entirely. He felt his habitual blush run down from his cheeks and across his chest, ending at his flushed and fully erect cock.

‘It goes all the way down, hey?’ James crooked a smile at him. Steve heated even more, so self-conscious about this huge body that was the object of so many desires so distant from the reality of the man that inhabited it.

James was hovering above him, skilfully removing his own briefs and perching straddled across Steve’s thighs. He was so beautiful, Steve thought. Dishevelled and smiling, the lines around his eyes and mouth, across his forehead, just making him look more handsome, more real. The little roll round his waist, that anywhere but LA wouldn’t even be remarked upon. His chest had a delightful path of curling dark hair, and Steve’s eyes were drawn further down to the trail leading down his belly to the thatch of trimmed pubic hair where his cock nestled, cock curving half-hard against Steve.

Hadn’t that been a box Steve had ticked, or a comment he wrote? _I want someone real, someone who’s not from round here_. That must have been why Fury had gone on a road trip; looking for variety to meet the freeform demands written down on his carefully curated forms.

James ran his hands over Steve’s chest, lingering over the long scar down’s Steve’s sternum.

‘I don’t remember seeing this in the movies,’ he said lightly.

Steve shook his head. ‘They cover it up. It’s not a cool scar, because I got it from heart surgery, and talking about it would mean acknowledging more detail about all the things that were, _are_ , still wrong with my body.’

James leaned down and kissed the scar with feather light kisses, drifting over to tongue gently at Steve’s nipples, making him shudder and whine.

James kissed up his throat and gently planted a kiss on his lips, then rested his arms either side of Steve’s head.

‘So, Steve Rogers, we’ve made it this far on instinct and chemistry, but I’m afraid I can’t get a read on you, and you didn’t give any details on the form, so I’m going to have to ask you the old fashioned way what you’d like to do.’

‘Um,’ Steve blinked, ‘it’s been kind of a long time since I was with a guy.’

‘But you have been with a guy,’ James prompted. ‘And presumably also women.’

Steve felt his cock throbbing, so aroused at the idea of being asked, of saying what it was that he needed.

‘I just want you to – take care of me,’ Steve whispered. ‘I want to not be in my head, not make decisions. Just be.’ James traced the edges of Steve’s eyes, where perhaps tears were gathering.

‘But you don’t want me to hurt you, Stevie, just hold you, just take control.’

‘Yes,’ Steve breathed huskily, ‘yes.’

James took hold of Steve’s hands and held them down above his head while he kissed him long and deep, fucking his tongue into Steve’s mouth. Steve moaned and writhed and James sat more firmly on his thighs, restraining him oh so gently.

‘Now, you just hold onto the bed Stevie,’ James directed Steve’s hands to the wooden railings on the bed frame. ‘Hold on tight.’ Steve knew that James could have stopped, found something to tie him with, but he was so grateful that he hadn’t, that he had maintained the press of their flesh together, kept holding onto Steve. And Steve would hold onto the bed, under James’ gentle instruction.

Then James was moving down Steve’s body, kissing and licking his jaw, his throat, biting softly, enough to draw a cry from Steve but not enough to mark him. Then he reached Steve’s right nipple and licked, and sucked, and then worked the tender nub between his teeth. Steve squirmed and held tight, the sensation on the edge of pain but the slow build keeping it just there, just on the right side.

‘James,’ Steve moaned out. ‘Please.’

And James moved to the left nipple, as if he knew what Steve was asking for, building again from gentle licks to stinging bite that sent waves of sensation lighting up his nervous system – burning into Steve’s fingers, his toes, his aching cock.

‘That okay, Steve?’ James said, looking up, lips wet and swollen. ‘You just say stop at anytime.’

‘Don’t stop James, please. I like it.’ And the feeling was so simply there – he liked it. He liked James’ smile, and his mouth continuing down Steve’s body, pausing at his hip bone and sucking there until Steve cried out and jerked his hip up, the nerves all around his crotch flaring and sparking. The great expanse of eternity didn’t vanish, but it entered instead into this moment of pleasure – the moment itself eternal and fleeting.

James kissed and sucked at the inside of Steve’s thighs until he was a shuddering mess, mewling out James’ name. And finally James put a hand on Steve’s cock, tugging a sob from Steve’s chest.

‘I’m gonna take you in my mouth Stevie, blow you a little,’ James said. And there was something in his voice, some hint of an accent that reminded Steve of hot summers in Brooklyn and his friend Arthur, fooling around when their mothers were out.

‘Please,’ Steve begged again, the moment now full to bursting with desire for James, nostalgia for half-forgotten afternoons when he was a different person, like all of Steve’s life was rising to the surface of his skin.

James licked around the head of his cock, running his tongue along the slit, twisting his head back and forth a little. Then he went down part way, running his tongue along the sensitive underside as he slowly worked his way back up. Then again, but just a little deeper, again with the slide of his tongue. Pulling off briefly to lap again at the tip then going down deeper again.

‘James,’ Steve cried out brokenly, not completely understanding how anything could feel this good. When was the last time anyone had gone down on him in a way which wasn’t just perfunctory? Didn’t have the air of some kind of duty?

James didn’t even seem to be particularly focused on making him come, just playing this teasing game, going a little deeper each time, until finally his nose was nestled in Steve’s groomed thatch of pubic hair, Steve’s cock resting at the back of James’ throat. James swallowed a little, making Steve’s hips buck slightly – he gripped the bed head to try to stay still. Then another long slow pull of James’ tongue up the shaft, and Steve was actually crying a little, totally overwhelmed by sensation, by the vision of James with his lips pulled tight around Steve, looking up at him from under lush lashes.

Steve shut his eyes for a moment, breath coming in quick gasps. James pulled of and Steve whined. James shushed him gently, then Steve heard the click of a lid and looked down.

‘Where did that come from?’ Steve croaked.

James shook his head with a grin, ‘Tricks of the trade Stevie.’ Oh fuck, where had that nickname come from? Steve loved it. It was warm, special, safe, made him feel small again in the best possible way.

Then one of James’ fingers was running around his rim, inquiring gently.

‘Is this something you’d like Steve?’ James asked. ‘My fingers? My cock?’

Steve gave an obscene groan. ‘Both, everything, please.’

James smiled and hummed that beautiful contented hum, and pushed Steve’s knees up. His finger breached Steve’s hole a little, tiny pushes in and out as Steve clenched then relaxed around him. Then a second finger and oh fuck it had been so long. It had been a while since he’d had a lover who would do this for him; or someone who he’d trusted enough to ask. He had been so flat recently he hadn’t had the heart to play with himself, or use a toy.

So the stretch of James’ fingers was intense and glorious as he probed in deeper, passed the second knuckle. Then he curled his fingers and hit Steve’s prostate and Steve cried out and bore down on Bucky’s fingers, wanting everything.

‘Patience, Steve,’ James reprimanded him a little. Steve complained as he pulled the fingers out, then moaned in satisfaction as he drove back in with three, pushing down and feeling them filling him. But not enough.

‘James,’ Steve whined, ‘I want….’

‘Waddya want, Steve?’ James’ voice was dark and deep.

‘Your cock, I want your cock to fill me up, to _fuck_ me.’

James groaned into Steve’s thigh, biting down hard, enough to mark, and Steve rumbled in delight.

Then James’ fingers were gone, and Steve looked down and watched him roll on a condom, lube himself up.

‘This position okay?’ James was kneeling over him, pushing his legs up, exposing his hole, his engorged cock, his balls nestling tight and firm against his body, surveying him, an expression of satisfaction on his face.

‘Yes, yes, I wanna see you.’ Steve was broken open. He had no more defences. He couldn’t pretend anymore. All he wanted was to see James’ face while he fucked him, touch him.

‘You can touch me if you want Steve.’ There it was again – James reading him, hearing him without Steve even saying a word. Steve let go of the bed, hands white and trembling, and ran them across James’ face as he leaned in, pulled him in for a kiss, all tongues and teeth and heat. And James pushed Steve’s legs back, and settling into position guided his cock to press against Steve’s hole. He pulled his face away to stare intently at Steve twitching and moaning and then crying out eyes squeezing shut out as James pushed past his rim and slowly filled him, pausing as Steve trembled and fluttered around him, moving when he opened more to let him in.

Then James was resting inside him, staring down at Steve, eyes beautiful and crinkly. Steve brushed the lines with his fingertips, and part of him imagined sketching them in charcoal.

Then James pulled back a little and thrust back in, starting with gentle, short motions then pulling back further, thrusting back a little harder, another gloriously escalating rhythm. I was like the whole fuck was a symphony, with the motif building each time until it reached this crescendo of James fucking into him hard, heaving Steve’s legs over his shoulders, hitting his prostate each time so Steve gave a punched-out sob, clawing helplessly at James’ shoulders.

His cock was so hard, and he could feel his orgasm building deep in his gut.

‘Please James, please,’ he sobbed out.

‘Go on Stevie, come for me,’ and James reached one hand down, holding Steve’s leg with his shoulder, and gave Steve’s cock a few rough pulls. Steve came all over his belly, feeling himself clench and flutter around James’ cock; James groaning and spasming, thrusting a few more times deep into Steve.

Steve wished he was filling him up, leaving him leaking and wanton as James gently pulled out, lowering Steve’s legs and kissing his knees, his belly, his sternum, his lips.

Steve was still breathing rapidly, suddenly aware how sweaty he was, wet with perspiration and his own come smeared across his belly. And now James’ stomach too, as he enfolded Steve in an embrace. Steve could hear James’ heart pounding in his chest as Steve rested his head there.

They stayed like that for a few minutes as their breath subsided and their hearts calmed again.

‘You got an ensuite to this fancy room?’ James asked. “I’ll get something to clean us up.’

Steve gestured to the door, still to overcome to offer to do it himself.

James returned with a damp, warm cloth and a fluffy towel and wiped them both and patted them dry and pulled the covers over them.

Steve snuggled back into James’ arms, sighing as James stroked his hair, scratching at his scalp.

For a moment, while James was in the bathroom, Steve had been gripped by his usually post-coital fears. Would James want to leave? Should Steve suggest that he leave so he didn’t have to feel bad about asking? Then he remembered he’d paid for the night, and the next morning, and James would only leave if Steve wanted him to.

So Steve relaxed into James’ embrace, and wrapped his arms around James’ waist.

‘What about before the truck stop?’ Steve asked.

‘What?’ James asked, obviously a little thrown by the question.

‘Before the truck stop. I mean, I assume you weren’t born there?’ Steve peeked up at James’ surprised face.

‘No, no I wasn’t.’ James rested his head back on the pillow, still stroking Steve’s hair. ‘I grew up in Brooklyn.’ Steve started.

‘What? Really? I did too.’

James laughed. ‘No kidding?’

“Whereabouts? Steve asked.

‘Flatbush,’ James murmured.

‘Huh. I grew up in Vinegar Hill.’ Steve could almost smell the city – feel the dense air of Brooklyn in summer, or the chill of short gray winter days.

‘Small world.’

‘So how did you make it from Flatbush to a truck stop in Texas.’

‘Well,’ James paused for a while, and Steve wondered if he didn’t tell this part of the story so much. ‘I grew up poor, as you do in Brownsville. I don’t think the hipsters have made too many inroads there yet, even now. Dropped out of school, decided to travel round the country, Kerouac style.’

James ran a finger over Steve’s temple. ‘I don’t know how much time you’ve spent travelling round the States, but there’s always a bunch of kids wandering around, homeless, usually drinking and smoking and tripping, stealing shit, having a good time. I did it for a quite a few years, saw most of the country.’

Steve made a noise, to show he was still listening.

‘I made it down to Austin and spent a while there. This was in like, the mid 2000s, and it was still a bit grungy. Nice and warm most of the year. You could sleep on the streets because it was warm most of the time, and there were lots of weirdos.

‘Anyway, I hooked up with this guy, Brock, who ended up taking me out to West Texas, where he was from. Of course, he was from a conservative family, pretended I was just a mate, hooked back up with his highschool sweetheart. I managed to get a ride out of town, but not far, and I just wound up at that fucking truck stop.’ James’ hand had paused, and the story was somehow different this time, sadder, from this direction.

‘I just couldn’t leave. I got a job there and a shitty place to stay in this trailer park that basically existed to service the truck stop. For fun we’d go to the strip mall down the road. I just lost all my energy, whatever it was that kept me moving for those years before. Just sort of washed up it the shittest place in the United States, which exists in thousands of different places and manage to be exactly the same in each one, but also each one is horrifying in its own special way.’

Steve pressed a few kisses to James’ shoulder, feeling the rough skin of scars under his mouth.

‘No one’s really asked for the full back story in years,’ James said softly. ‘I guess usually a story about blowing truckers and having your arm set on fire is enough for most people to think they know everything important about you.’

Steve chuckled softly in his armpit. ‘I’m already sure that you contain multitudes James.’

‘Thanks pal,’ James said. He paused for a while longer, and Steve left him to it, enjoying the sensation of him pondering, breathing into Steve’s hair. ‘You can call me Bucky, if you like.’

‘That your nickname?’

‘Yeah. My sister used to call me that. It kinda stuck.’

‘Okay Bucky.’ Steve snuggled in deeper, holding onto _Bucky_ like a limpet. And without even trying he drifted off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky's night together comes to an end. Where to next for our sad boys?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This seems like a weird time to be posting Hollywood AU fanfiction. I live in Australia, and encourage any of my compatriots to donate to support justice for Indigenous Australians and end imprisonment. For example, there is a Go Fund me called Free Her which pays off Indigenous women's fines and related fees to free them from custody.

_But please don't tread on dearest Marilyn  
Cause she's not very tough  
She should have been made of iron or steel  
But she was only made of flesh and blood_

Steve woke warm and contended, curled against a broad, strong back.

For a moment his thoughts fluttered anxious and heavy, like moths against a lighted window.

But then he remembered – James, _Bucky_ , was a professional. He was paid to be here right now, doing whatever Steve wanted that was in the bounds of the contractual terms.

And what Steve wanted mostly was to keep snuggling into Bucky’s back, listen to his even breathing.

Steve had, earlier the previous day, set an alarm for 9am. This, if the evening had proceeded well, would, Steve had calculated, give him and James enough time to have coffee and breakfast, some conversation, and for James to depart by the assigned deadline of midday.

Sam had told Steve not to be ashamed of anything he wanted. And one of the things Steve wanted was breakfast and conversation, out in the sunshine if the weather was nice.

As Bucky stretched and yawned, and wiggled around to face Steve, delightfully sleepy, hair mussed up and falling across his face, Steve thought maybe there might be some other nice things that they could do before midday.

So he found himself on his back again, but this time with his hands tied to the bed head with a black silken rope from Bucky’s overnight bag, Bucky lowering himself down onto Steve’s cock, gazing at Steve from heavy-lidded eyes, tongue between his lips.

Steve writhed and tugged against the ropes. ‘ _Bucky, Bucky…._ ’ His voice broke and descended into a throaty moan as Bucky bottomed out. Bucky was so warm and tight around his cock. Steve’s breath came in shudders as he felt the sensation of being held by the ropes around his wrists, held by Bucky’s body.

‘Oh Steve,’ Bucky whispered, an awed expression on his face. Steve knew his skin was pink and flushed, imagined the black of the soft cord on his skin, his pupils blown like Bucky’s were, and for a moment he felt so good to look the way he did, so pleased to look good for Bucky, make him feel good.

And then Bucky was moving in a sinuous motion, leaning back with one hand on Steve’s thigh and moving his hips in circles. They were both moaning together in such a sweet harmony, Bucky’s body was moving like a dancer in the morning sun, the soft down on his skin catching the sunlight, his throat bared but his eyes still looking down at Steve.

Steve was alive with sensation as Bucky moved, subtle changes in the angle pressing different parts of his cock; hearing only the squelch of lube, Bucky’s moans, the broken pleas falling from his own lips.

Then Bucky was shifting, leaning forward and putting his hands on Steve’s chest, pinching his nipples, squeezing his pecs, stroking Steve’s skin as he raised and lowered himself riding higher and plunging deep each time. His muscular thighs flexed and bulged, squeezing Steve, keeping hold. Steve moaned to touch him, fucking his hips up in a desperate attempt to get closer, further in.

‘It’s okay Steve, I’ve got you.’ Bucky touched his lips touched his face then with a quick movement released the bonds and pulled Steve up towards him. They were rocking together in time, Steve’s thrusts meeting the movement of Bucky’s hips, Bucky’s cock trapped between their bellies, Steve weeping into Bucky’s shoulder.

‘Stevie,’ Bucky pulled Steve’s head up so gently by the hair and looked deep into his eyes. ‘So beautiful Stevie,’ and as Bucky’s walls spasmed around his cock Steve came with a sob, crying into Bucky’s shoulders, feeling Bucky’s come coating his stomach, believing for the first time in a long time that the words were really meant for him, and not just the body that had never really belonged to him. He felt their skin touching everywhere, wet with sweat and come and Steve’s tears.

Bucky laid him down gently, stroking and whispering to him and Steve smiled damply and let Bucky wipe him down again.

Then Bucky hustled them both into the bathroom, where they easily shared the enormous shower cubicle. Bucky examined all of Steve’s expensive unperfumed products and purred happily as Steve massaged a shampoo bar through his hair.

Steve showed him the new toothbrush he’d bought specially, and Bucky used it even though he almost certainly had one in his bag, and they brushed their teeth standing together at the sink. Steve had refused to have his and her sinks in this bathroom. He hated them so much, but particularly in an ensuite to a bedroom which was where he slept when Sharon wasn’t here, or had exiled him, so they took turns spitting into the sink.

Bucky brushed his hair, but declined Steve’s offer of a hair dryer, saying it could just dry curly.

Bucky had a change of clothes in the bag he had bought – a light pair of sweatpants and a soft t-shirt with a red star.

Steve’s chest filled as he made the coffee on his giant espresso machine, watching Bucky lounge against the breakfast bar, feet bare and har tucked behind his ears.

Steve made eggs and Bucky supervised toast productions, then they went out to the modest terrace off the kitchen, which looked out over a garden to the high wall bordering the property.

‘Quite the princess in the castle aren’t you Steve,’ Bucky lounged back with one hand over his belly, munching on a slice of toast lathered in butter.

‘Yeah,’ Steve sighed. ‘This place is too big, and I need to sell it. But I can’t decide where I want to go, or what I want to do. I got this place in the divorce because Sharon prefers Malibu, or Martha’s Vineyard, but it’s pretty much all her.’

‘Except the library, and your bedroom.’ Bucky nudged Steve’s foot with his bare toes. ‘You just need to find a place that matches the stuff you have in there.’

‘Where do you live?’ Steve asked. And then stammered out, ‘I mean, if you want to tell me. You don’t have to.’

‘Echo Park,’ Bucky smiled. ‘Gotta keep an eye on those Silver Lake hipsters.’

And Steve could see it, suddenly, this whole city out there that he had never really seen or understood, just gone to parties and the latest, hippest, most exclusive clubs. Always in a car, looking out at the city passing by.

It was so long since he first moved here. Pierce had brought him over, having secured him a role off the back of an off-Broadway production in New York. Broadway, where a tiny Steve had scraped out a living doing set design for theatre productions.

All that seemed so far away, the visceral smell of New York rising in his nostrils, the last time he had really lived in the city he inhabited. Working his fingers to the bone, working while he was sick.

But he could see Bucky moving through LA, hunting down food vans, sitting in his favourite bar, running in parks in the sunshine. Being in the city.

Sure he serviced the rich and famous, brought his quite stunning skills to lonely, bitter people who didn’t know how good they had it. But he had a life here as well, in a way Steve didn’t in his weird Norma Desmond mansion.

‘You’re thinking again, hey Steve?’ Bucky asked, nudging his leg.

‘Yeah,’ Steve said. ‘But it’s just past 11, so I think I might need to return gently to reality before you leave at 12.’

Bucky smiled at him gently. He must see this often – have to let people down easy who get carried away on his magical ride.

‘I’ve had a great time, though, Bucky. Thank you so much. You’re very good at your job.’ Steve pushed the rest of his eggs away and picked up his coffee again. He didn’t want Bucky to think he didn’t appreciate the excellent service he provided.

‘Thanks Steve.’ Bucky smiled again, but maybe with a little hint of a frown instead of with his eyes.

Steve thought about last night, and how Bucky had told him about how he got to the truck stop; how he got to here. All Steve had done was complain about how hard it was to be rich and famous. It was like he’d forgotten what it was like to be poor and too hot in summer, too cold in winter. How good icecream was, and how cool the cinema could be on a summer day in New York when you snuck in for free. Or the heating in MOMA in winter on Friday nights, looking at art and trying to hide the holes in his jumper.

‘My mother died before I could share any of this with her,’ Steve said, following that train of thought to the year he was 18, finishing school, his mother coming down with the flu and then pneumonia, them not being able to afford treatment. Bucky just sipped his coffee, not looking directly at Steve, but their feet still pressed together.

‘I was just thinking about coming to Los Angeles, about how I ended up here.’ Steve continued. ‘The interview version, my publicist’s version, is that I was lucky enough to get an experimental drug that cured me of being tiny and skinny and sick, and then after that I was handsome enough to be the star I’d always dreamed.’ Steve stared into his coffee.

‘But actually I only signed up for the trial because I was trying to make ends meet, trying to make enough money from art, and set design to pay the rent, and eat, and not die. I was by myself after Mum died, living in a sharehouse in Bushwick, and a lot of us were doing it.

‘But this particular treatment worked better, or worse, than it was meant to. I think it was just meant to fix my asthma – you had to have a chronic condition to be eligible so it paid more than other trials – but I grew so much in three months I was in constant pain. And I wasn’t big even then, just taller, like a final growth spurt that happened all at once. My bones would just scream all the time. I had to stop working and curl into a ball for three months. They kept me in the lab all the time, and no one could visit me. All the subjects had different reactions, but I never knew what happened to them.’

Steve thought of some of those people he had met in the early days of the treatment – Wanda and Pietro, a brother and sister; an older guy called Logan. They’d never tried to find him; he guess he’s never tried to find them. Where were they now?

‘Then I had a major heart failure – possibly from all the strain on my body, and it required multiple surgeries and more experimental procedures. It was a nightmare. I still have a bunch of stuff in my chest,’ Steve gripped at his heart, a reflex action that he often turned into a laugh.

‘Then, I don’t know, a year later I was given the all clear, and tried to get my job back, but got offered a bit part in a play as Adonis by a director I used to work for, and turned out to not be a bad actor.

‘But I was okay before, you know. I got sick a bit, and I was small, and I had asthma, but I just wanted to paint and make cool things and be involved in the theatre.’

Bucky was looking at him thoughtfully. ‘You can still paint and make things if you want, Steve. It doesn’t have to be for a reason, you don’t have to sell it or show it to anyone.’

‘Yeah, it’s okay.’ They both sat in silence, Steve’s comment obviously not actually true.

‘Tell me more about your traveling days, tell me a few stories.’ Steve was determined not to ruin this last hour.

And Bucky sat and spun tales about hitchhiking through Idaho, jumping a train outside Colorado, freezing in the forests of Appalachia. Steve knew he was telling the good stories and skipping over harder stuff. Stories for a morning drawing to a close. But it was soothing, imaging the roads unfolding, trains shunted into sidings in small towns, Bucky younger and thinner and hungrier, searching for something maybe he never found.

Eventually it was quarter to 12, and Steve gathered their plates and cups up and carried them into the kitchen.

He could feel his body coiling up again, and while Bucky placed a gentle hand in the small of his back, it wasn’t quite enough.

He ushered Bucky to the door, and they both stood in the open doorway.

‘Thanks again, Bucky.’ Steve held out his hand. Bucky looked at it and laughed, shaking his head a little, and pulled Steve into a hug.

‘Thanks Steve Rogers,’ Bucky whispered in his ear, and walked down the driveway to his waiting ride. Steve watched him go, not just the strong thighs and that lovely ass, but the spring in his step, the bounce of his hair, tasting the sound of his name falling from Bucky’s lips.

\-----

Nick called that evening to check in that everything had been to Steve’s satisfaction. Steve gave James ( _Bucky_ ) a glowing review and inquired whether he might be able to use his services again.

Steve’s heart ached as he asked, knowing that eventually Bucky leaving when the time was up, heading back to his apartment, breaking Steve open and putting him back together, maybe even a little better than before, would all become too much. But Steve kind of wanted to have his heart broken, felt as if the sharp ache of unrequited love would be so much better, cleaner than the sick feeling in his gut.

‘I’m sorry, Steve,’ Nick said, and Steve sank a little into his armchair, the red one, that still smelled a little like Bucky. ‘James let me know that he doesn’t feel he’ll be able to see you again professionally. He sends his apologies, and he wants to let you know that it’s nothing you did. He has given you a glowing reference.’

‘That’s okay,’ Steve kept his voice strong. ‘I understand.’ He was probably just a bit too much, with his ramblings about time, and the cosmos, even if Bucky had obviously not minded the bed bit, and the shower bit, and the coffee and eggs bit.

It was okay. Steve rolled that thought around a little. It obviously wasn’t. But maybe it could be?

‘I can send you through a few more options. Now you know what kind of services we offer, and you’ve been approved by one of our workers, you can browse a few profiles. Even if it’s just for nights out, someone on your arm.’ Steve had also expressed interest in that as an option, as a means of having some tactical support for parties and awards nights.

‘Yeah, sure, send them through.’ Steve hung up his phone, resting his head back on the head rest and shutting his eyes.

On balance, he thought, it was totally worth it, even though he might have managed to break his heart a little bit.

\-----

Steve had grown a beard and slimmed down for his new film, which didn’t require him to be such a monster. As a result, he was able to get out and about more without being recognised, particularly with his hair dyed darker.

He was checking out a fish taco place in Silver Lake, soaking up the LA-style hipsters and the sunshine. No one looked at him twice, except in a general checking out a nice-looking guy way.

Steve felt kind of okay. He was working on making that sentence true. He had ditched his agent, waking up the day after Bucky had visited with a sudden epiphany that the guy was a total jerk who had literally never listened to anything that Steve had said. _I’m not that interested in blockbusters or action movies_. _I have enough money. All of this working out puts a lot of strain on my heart_.

He’d called Sam and said, ‘I can just fire my agent can’t I?’

‘Jesus Christ Steve, yes you can,’ Sam exclaimed, not even pissed off that it was 6 in the morning. ‘I’ve been telling you for years that Phil is way better for the kind of work you’re interested in. Also, if you’re on a roll, fire that awful personal trainer you have, Schmidt or whatever, and hire Clint. He will work to not literally kill you with high intensity exercise that your heart cannot take. You can do yoga and come for runs with us.’

Steve had looked through Nick’s catalogue and had in fact hired Natasha a number of times to come to events with him. She was incredibly good at extracting Steve from conversations he did not want to have, and over the course of many engagements was now able to scare the right people away before they even made it to Steve. Steve suspected she may have crushed the hand of a particularly sleazy producer, who was unable to admit to it because she was so tiny.

She was also funny, sharp and so beautiful that everyone assumed she was a star of something, even if they couldn’t quite recall what. They would occasionally kiss, and if he got all up in his head she would give him a scalp massage, and it was nice, but they never slept together.

It was nice, just to accept that, and they were kind of a funny sort of friends now, even if Steve never talked to her like he had talked to Bucky that night. She seemed to understand things.

Steve never asked her about Bucky, even though they must know one another. He wondered sometimes if they were friends too. He knew they wouldn’t talk about him, but he liked to imagine them hanging out together, Bucky making jokes and Natasha pretending not to laugh and narrowing her eyes instead.

That morning Sam, Clint and he had been out running and had come across Natasha in a park, doing some insane bodyweight gymnastics routine. She had smiled at Steve, so he figured it was okay to make introductions. Clint was obviously smitten and they appeared to have arranged some sort of parkour date, so Steve felt like he was even spreading a little bit of joy.

Steve had also never worked out why Sam knew about Nick’s service, or what he or who he used it for, or even if he did. Steve figured it was some sort of fight club scenario and just didn’t mention it. But Sam obviously knew Steve was doing better.

Steve had even hired a private detective to try to track down some of the people he was in the trial with. When he found Wanda and Pietro in a shitty apartment in Baltimore, both still suffering side effects from the trial, he had brought them both to LA, bought them an apartment and hooked them up with both medical treatment and a really good lawyer.

He was giving interviews about his own experiences now and was as a consequence embroiled in an insane defamation case brought by Hydra Pharmaceuticals, but was finding it kind of fun. He’d always liked a fight.

But this was a warm October day, and he was in the sunshine, and the food was excellent. He was here and now. That was what he was working on. Steve finished off his taco and let his eyes drift across the crowd, then started sharply.

There was Bucky. Really there. Not like Steve had wished him hundreds of times before, only to realise the face was wrong, or the height, or the everything that wasn’t Bucky.

But really there, wearing shorts and a tank top that hung low, showing of his chest shining with sweat and tanned after a long summer, his hair a bit longer now and up in a bun.

Before Steve had really thought about it, he was jumping up and waving. ‘Bucky!’

Then Bucky was turning and seeing him, and Steve’s stomach was plunging. _Fuck, he had said he didn’t want to see him again_.

But Bucky’s face was splitting into a grin and he was coming over to Steve.

‘Stevie!’

Oh god, it was going to kill him. His heart was not fine. He clutched at it a little. Bucky was so beautiful and literally shining in the sun.

Bucky was sauntering up to him, head bent a little shyly, knocking the brim of Steve’s cap. ‘In disguise are you?’

Steve blushed and looked down. ‘I’m sorry,’ Steve said, rubbing his neck, ‘For yelling out to you. I know you didn’t want to see me again.’

‘Oh no, Steve,’ Bucky frowned a little, ‘I just couldn’t see you again professionally. I knew Natasha was seeing you, and I thought you seemed to like being with her when I saw photos and stuff. It seemed like you probably didn’t need me anyway.’

Bucky’s smile was a little bit sad Steve thought.

‘You didn’t want to see me professionally?’ Steve repeated slowly.

‘Yeah,’ Bucky blushed a little himself. ‘I broke a few of my own personal rules. Nothing you did,’ he placed a reassuring hand on Steve’s shoulder, catching the tensing of Steve’s breath. ‘Just some things like telling you my nickname, giving _you_ a nickname. You threw me off a bit with the whole Brooklyn thing, and then I was telling you things I hadn’t told anyone in years. I just felt like if I saw you again professionally it would get… unprofessional.’

‘Oh,’ Steve said.

‘But it sounds like you’ve been doing real well. Got rid of that agent, takin care of your heart.’ And Bucky put his hand over Steve’s left pec, where Steve’s heart was definitely not behaving itself.

‘You hear all the Hollywood gossip hey?’ Steve said in a strangled voice.

Bucky laughed. ‘Yeah, well, I get around a bit.’

Steve laughed too.

Bucky moved his hand away and Steve definitely did not let out a little sad noise. Bucky was looking down. ‘I knew it was silly anyway. I mean, I know we connected well and had a good time, but you’re a big star Steve.’ He tucked an escaped strand of hair behind his ear, and looked away, across the park, not meeting Steve’s eyes. ‘I did think about maybe dropping by, but you moved, and it wasn’t a good idea anyway, I didn’t want to stalk you.’

It was so strange. In Steve’s mind Bucky had come to seem perfectly self-possessed, but here in front of him, outside of his professional persona, there was a current of uncertainty in his body.

‘It’s just the road you can’t walk down, you know?’ Bucky continued with a shrug, chewing his lip. ‘Falling for a client never really works in this profession, but even less so when your clients are… extraordinary.’

‘You’re not ordinary, Bucky,’ Steve protested. ‘Like, none of us are ordinary, but to me you were… are really special. You helped me so much. I thought about you when I moved – I found this early twentieth century hacienda in the Hills, with a courtyard with avocado trees, and my chairs look really great in the library.’

Bucky’s eyes gave a little hint of a pleased crinkle, and Steve desperately wanted to make him do it again, more, touch those creases.

‘Thanks Steve. That does mean a lot. You really seem to be doing better, and I’m glad I could help you a little.’

‘No, Bucky,’ Steve found his hand was on Bucky’s bare bicep, squeezing gently, ‘you helped me a lot. And more than that, I really liked spending time with you, more than with anyone for… like maybe ever?’

Bucky looked at him skeptically. ‘Look, Steve, I know that was a hard time for you but….’ He sighed. ‘I’m a sex worker – yes an expensive one now, but still, you know where I came from. And you are literally one of the most famous men alive. This is just a… fancy.’ Bucky pressed his lips together and waved his hand, still not looking into Steve’s eyes.

Steve felt a great welling in his chest – these last months he had looked into his own life a lot, looked out into the world, and it was like he had looked through that existential dread of time unfolding away and found a sweet core of truth in the beauty of each passing moment. A beauty he had first encountered in Bucky's naked body pressed against his.

‘Bucky, I know there’s a lot of stuff that comes with me that I can’t control, but you have been present with me a lot these past few months – I would see you leaning against the bench in that awful kitchen and that was the one thing I was sad to leave. I thought of us growing up so near to each other and imagined this line of energy humming the whole time - a foreshadowing of us meeting. I tried to be more the person I was with you, not the person I think people want to see.’

‘Steve,’ Bucky started, looking up and stopping when their eyes met. Steve watched a blush spread across Bucky’s face.

‘So what I took from what you said earlier is that you’d like my number, so you can find me without stalking?’ Steve asked hopefully. And that energy hummed between them.

‘I’d like that a lot Steve.’ And there it was. Bucky smiled and his eyes crinkled and his eyelashes fluttered a little.

‘I’d really like to take you on a date Bucky.’

After a brief pause, Bucky leaned in and pressed a kiss to Steve’s lips. Steve whined a little in his throat and shivered at the warm touch of Bucky’s lips.

Bucky moved his mouth close to Steve’s ear and whispered, ‘You know I live pretty close to here, Stevie.’

And Steve had a whole lotta plans which involved taking Bucky out somewhere nice and showing him what a special guy he was, but also Bucky was pressing close to Steve and Steve could feel the warmth and curve of Bucky’s muscles, feel the firm grip of his hand on Steve’s hip. Life was so brief, after all, and they were both so human.

‘You free right now?’ Bucky stepped back and inclined his head a little, his left hand holding Steve’s right.

‘Yes, yes I am,’ Steve croaked out.

Steve had his motorbike with him, and at least a spare helmet even if they were both underdressed for the ride. It was only a short distance and Bucky held him tight.

As they entered Bucky’s complex he gave a few waves to people passing by, but nobody looked at them too hard or too curiously.

Steve barely had time to look around Bucky’s neat, cheerful apartment, filled with eclectic furniture and random paraphernalia, including a large collection of pink flamingos in the form of lamps, garden ornaments, and other more obscure purposes.

Then Bucky was kissing him, and Steve was overwhelmed by how he had missed this – this thing he had had so briefly, the writhe of Bucky’s hips he held Steve close, the languid exploration of his tongue, the testing press of his teeth against Steve’s lips, that moan in his throat which sounded _pleased_ , like a cat that got the cream he had been waiting for.

 _Him_ , Bucky had been waiting for _him._

‘Steve.’ And Bucky must know it, must know how his name on those pink lips weakened his knees, brought him undone.

‘Please, Bucky.’ Because Steve _needed_ and Bucky would know what, because Steve couldn’t always tell.

Bucky led him by the hand to a sunny bedroom with a large bed made with linen sheets, smelling fresh and unperfumed.

It only took a few moments to shed their clothes, and Bucky was there, pulling his hair tie out and shaking out his hair like a shampoo model

Steve just moaned, and Bucky laughed and pushed him gently onto the bed. The expanse of Bucky’s skin was under his hands, Bucky’s mouth was on him, holding his wrists and playing that delightful crescendo on his nipples, licking, sucking, biting until Steve arched in delighted agony. Bucky’s mouth was on his stomach, his hip bones, the tender inside of his thighs.

Then Bucky shuffled back, eyes dark as he looked over Steve sprawled wanton and needy. Steve blushed a little, but spread his legs wider to give Bucky a view of his pink, hard cock already beading at the tip, invite Bucky’s eyes to graze over his balls and back to where his hole twitched already in anticipation.

Bucky growled approvingly and reached over into the nightstand and pulled out lube and a condom.

‘No special tricks today?’ Steve teased.

Bucky shook his head and laughed. ‘Just the regular old nightstand trick.’

Bucky eyed Steve critically, and his aching cock twitched under that hot gaze. Steve waited breathlessly for the instruction. He wanted Bucky to touch him, but every way at once, he couldn’t possibly decide. He made a pitiful noise and wiggled a little.

‘Turn over,’ Bucky ordered. Steve rolled onto his belly, eager and trembling, rubbing his cock against the cool, scratchy linen.

‘Nah ah,’ Bucky reprimanded, tugging Steve’s hips up so he was on his knees, chest still down, head turned to the side, cock hanging hot and throbbing and untouched.

‘Can’t see you,’ he complained a little.

‘That’s the great thing about having you over here, Stevie.’ And Bucky guided his head to the side and Steve moaned as he met his own eyes in a large mirror on the wall. But better than that was the sight of Bucky looming above him, broad chested and flushed, staring at Steve with a face heavy with desire and disbelief.

‘ _Bucky_ ,’ Steve was definitely dying. He wiggled his ass, feeling his hole clenching and he could see Bucky looking down and smiling appreciatively, then turning to meet Steve’s eyes in the mirror. Steve groaned at the sight of himself, ass in the air, skin yellowed by the afternoon sun. That was what he wanted – Bucky’s smile. Then Bucky gave him a wink and wriggled back, spreading Steve’s cheeks and… _oh fuck_. Steve watched as Bucky nuzzled his face in between Steve’s thighs, and babbled incoherently as he felt Bucky licking up the underside of Steve’s balls, along his taint – lapping and teasing – and then ran his tongue over Steve’s hole.

‘ _Bucky_ ,’ Steve moaned, watching himself, watching Bucky, feeling Bucky’s tongue running around his rim, the wet feel of it nudging into his hole. He whimpered as Bucky fucked deeper into him, sending soft, warm sensations radiating through Steve’s belly, his cock, and a warmth rising in his chest in response to the contented sounds vibrating in Bucky’s throat.

‘Bucky, Bucky,’ Steve had no idea what he was asking for, what he could want that was more than this, more than him totally open and undone for Bucky.

But Bucky knew; pulled his mouth away with a few parting kisses, sucking bites on Steve’s cheeks. He could see Bucky squirting lube onto his fingers and shuddered as he dribbled a little on Steve’s crack. Then Bucky pulled Steve’s hands behind his back and held them fast.

‘I got you Stevie,’ Bucky met his eyes in the mirror, serious and fully of care, care for Steve. Holding him tight, Bucky gently inserted one finger all the way into Steve – slow but unrelenting, with that contented hum. Steve clenched around his finger, tensing and releasing, blanketed by Bucky’s satisfied growls. Bucky thrust in and out a little, still pressing Steve’s wrists to the small of his back. Steve could see himself, legs spread ass up; see Bucky firm and soft and beautiful and _pleased with him_.

Bucky pulled out and pushed in with two fingers, all the way so Steve felt the burning this time, panted and sobbed a little as Bucky opened him with that pattern of thrust – short, longer, long, the burn flickering between pain and pleasure. Then three fingers, and Bucky was curling his fingers and Steve’s forgotten cock was twitching as his nerves sent sparks of fire out from his prostate.

Steve sobbed as Bucky withdrew his fingers – but Bucky was shifting, letting go of Steve’s wrists, reaching for the condom, winking at Steve in the mirror as he rolled it down the length of his beautifully curving cock. Steve panted at the sight, licking his lips and pushing his ass up, crying out in satisfaction as Bucky pressed his thighs warm to Steve’s, his cock nudging and sliding up and down Steve’s crack, gripping Steve's wrists again.

‘Watch yourself, Steve,’ Bucky commanded. Steve met his own wide eyes, his cheeks hot, his still unfamiliar bearded face, his lips parted and helpless, Bucky holding his hands, his shoulder. Then as Bucky thrust into Steve in one movement, the hand on Steve's shoulder holding tight and keeping his body fixed as he drove deep into him. Steve watched his own face break apart as Bucky's cock split him and filled him, Bucky’s eyes dark and his mouth open in a wordless groan. This was what he had wanted, to be touching Bucky everywhere.

And Bucky pulled out to the very tip, resting for a moment on Steve’s rim, then fucked into him hard and smooth and rhythmic. Steve couldn’t look away from him, their eyes fixed together in the mirror, mirroring blushes rising on their cheeks, wrecked sobs from Steve’s chest blending with Bucky’s throaty grunts. Steve gripped the sheets with white knuckled fists, watching through his wet eyelashes seeing those same tears glistening in the sun like the sweat on Bucky’s forehead, catching in the dark hairs on his chest. Bucky’s whole body was in motion, abs rippling and pecs bunching, holding Steve trapped as he split him roughly and completely with each thrust, Steve clenching around Bucky’s cock each time he thrust in, as if to hold him there, sobbing each time he withdrew and left him empty.

Bucky shifted again, letting go of Steve’s hands and pulling him up into Bucky’s lap, the length of Bucky’s front pressed against Steve’s back, Steve straddled across Bucky’s thighs. Steve was enveloped by Bucky’s arms, felt the press of Bucky’s mouth wet on his neck, his shoulder, moving a hand to grip Steve’s hair, pulling his head back further so the expanse of his throat was open, his breath restricted. Bucky was thrusting up into him faster and harder, Steve riding helplessly and Bucky hit his prostate every time, then he pulled Steve’s hair hard and rough with a whispered ‘Come for me Stevie’ and Steve was coming and coming and coming, untouched, spasming around Bucky’s cock, and Bucky was collapsing with him onto the bed and they were just one huge sweaty mess. Steve moaned softly and happily, delightfully crushed by Bucky’s bulk.

After a minute, an hour, Bucky moved and pulled them both out of the wet patch onto a drier section of the bed, purring contentment into Steve’s hair, massaging his sensitive scalp.

Steve found a pillow pushed under his head and Bucky curled around him.

‘Gonna show you a real nice time on our first date, Bucky,’ he slurred, as he drifted off to sleep.

‘I know you will, Steve,’ Bucky said, kissing his ear. ‘I’m gonna get you some water.’

When Steve woke it was the cool of the evening, and there was a bottle of water on the side table, part filled. Perhaps he remembered Bucky gently pouring some down his throat. And Bucky was reading by the light of a flamingo lamp, and everything was okay, Steve thought, it was really okay.

\----

And sure, some kid with a phone had managed to recognize Steve and snapped a picture of their kiss, but Phil wasn’t particularly bothered, and Bucky had made it into a few photos before. Kind of like Natasha, people always thought they knew him, but couldn’t quite remember from where. Was he in a band in the 2000s, or maybe he’d done some TV or modelling?

Steve never answered questions about him in interviews. Instead he’d ask the interviewer about their first love, or if they remembered the eye color of their high school prom date.

And Bucky would go to work a couple of times a week, only for private engagements, not events anymore, and even maybe stay out overnight, because he wasn’t quite ready to just rely on Steve to support him. Steve knew part of Bucky still didn’t really believe this life they had together was meant for him, as hard as Steve tried to show him, and sometimes they would argue about it. But he’d always come back to Steve’s house after a shift and they’d sit in the courtyard and Bucky would eat piles of buttery toast with eggs Steve made him and tell Steve some random story about a blues bar in St Louis, or an Irish pub in Savannah on St Patrick’s Day, digging his toes into Steve’s thighs and crinkling his eyes.

And Steve would sit sketching him in pencil in the yellow Californian light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading everyone! Find me on tumblr, (as stuckyflangst) or just leave a comment. I really do love comments. All authors seem to say that yeah? I accept all criticism, constructive and otherwise.


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